Lovely Blue and Black

Meat.  The older one doesn’t want it.  The younger one must have it.  We’ve got a fridge full of veggies but there ain’t no meat.  I’m hesitating, finding things to do, avoiding having to suit up and bike over to the market.  Puttering around the kitchen I notice a fish tail. 

I’m not sure where they came from.  There is a vacuum-packed mackerel with that lovely blue and black scaled shank on the side counter.  It’s the whole fish, gutted and in a shopping bag.   I pause because I can’t tell if this fish is for the taking and if it still fresh after spending the night in this bag, vacuum packing or otherwise.

My wife confirms that this is apparently serious fish.  A friend gave it to her as a gift and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.  Cutting the vacuum seals nothing smells particularly fishy and I decide to bake the hell out of them and see how it goes.  A bit of olive oil, salt and lemon and in they go. 

Bony.  But what do you expect when you have the whole fish, head to tail?  Maybe a little well done.  But I erred on the safe side.  It tastes good.  The little one picks at it.  She has more tofu tonight than she otherwise might.  The Mrs. and I do a bit of filleting to get it ready, but afterwards eat our fill.  There’s a good bit left and I scrape it off the pan and put it in a bag for the fridge.  I’ll suspect I’ll be substituting mackerel for my boring can of tuna in tomorrow’s salad.

Wednesday 12/05/18

Back Then, There Was

Tuesday, the day with no food.  Not at least till dinner.  Hot black coffee.  Water.   Cold black coffee.  Water.   I have a dinner meeting down in Guomao at 5:30PM.  There will be a brief meeting with a partner and then off to dinner.  I’ll be ready to eat.

Down at Guomao now.  The one term used to be enough.  Arriving I told the guy hey, didn’t I say “China Great “fandian?”  “No.  You typed in China Great jiudian”  Both mean "hotel."  I figured I was off to the posh hotel to where, as I recall, a good friend once bumped into the late Herbert Walker Bush there at the gym.  But that, is the next skyscraper over.  This is the newer, better, place and it better be where I'm going as this is the address my friend provided.   

Around 2006, when I lived in Hong Kong, I always used to stay near here at the Traders hotel, which was and has now once again, been dwarfed.  It was cheaper and had all the requisite facilities.  It’s still right there.  Down below all of this, is a tremendous mall that used to be quite something before there were eight seven other malls the same size strewn throughout this neighborhood.  Back then there was a coffee place named Arabica Roasters and it was a big deal, until the city opened its first Starbucks in this same mall.  To think, they probably vexed about whether or not it would succeed. 

Restaurants came and went.  Shops of note were here until they weren’t.  I’m sure there are other things to discover here now, that are achingly important to someone.  We rendezvous, have our brief 5:30PM meeting and stroll across this mall, out side and into that mall where we take an elevator up to the fifth floor.  My friend, another old-Beijinger directs us to a posh little Vietnamese place that is sold out on a Tuesday night.  Achingly important to someone.  Good business.  We take a seat at the bar and order scotches and chat until they can seat us.  

With supreme discipline I let my friend order the food.  It sounds as though he hasn’t ordered enough.  I keep silent.  The goi cuon hits the table and I try to appear nonchalant as my friend takes the first piece and I inhale my first bite of the day, and then my second.  The food isn’t bad, though the young waiters seem a bit clueless and we have to keep repeating ourselves, but the lighting is dark and our conversation is strong enough so that we only occasionally notice the middling service. 

Tuesday 12/04/18

More Blood in Them

It’s colder.  No question.  But I ain’t throwing in the towel yet. I can see my breath.  The first traffic light I arrive at has a large frozen puddle beside it.  A recent addition to this intersection, they must have inadvertently stuck a water pipe when they were laying the electric wiring.  I don’t pedal when I get there and I sure don’t break.  Always best to just glide right over the ice and that’s what I do. 

My trunk is warm.  I have a big down coat on over a large zipped up hoodie which is pulled over my neck and keeps everything within temperate.  My hands have makeshift mittens in the form of thick red socks. Without hand covering this ride would be impossible but as is, I don’t mind.  It’s my thighs, really that are cold.  These blue jeans just don’t cut it all by themselves.  But with each pump of the pedal, the blood circulates a little more soundly.  Thighs are sturdier than fingers.  There’s a lot more blood in them.

I wonder if anyone can see me.  I’ve a black bike and an orange parka.  The other morning I was biking along the correct direction on the side way that is cordoned off for bikes and walkers.  Off in the distance a light was approaching.  It was someone on a motorized scooter, coming closer and closer.  I kept to the side and afforded the person plenty of room but it was clear that only when we were within twenty feet of each other did she finally notice me and pulled to the side with a start. 

My reflector is a bit sad.  It's loose on the ring and its swung down so the shiny bits face the pavement and as such offers no use whatsoever as a form of reflection.  I suppose there is one on the back but I really haven’t looked.  The kids will ask me what I want for Christmas.  Perhaps a flashing light or two is not a bad idea.    

Monday, 12/03/18